Waking Up With You
by Juliana Eschette
Summary: France and England waking up on a lazy Monday morning together. The two nations have been at each other's throats for centuries, but that was just business. What really happens in their private moments together when all is calm and quiet? One-Shot. France's point of view. Request from Da Vinci Was A Genius.


Waking Up With You

Soft morning light streams through the curtain cracks, filling the white painted room with a warm glow. Birds are chirping charmingly just outside your window, greeting the day happily like every other day past and every other day to follow. I can already hear the beginning of rush-hour traffic starting to condense on your London streets, but the noise of grumbling engines can hardly be loud enough to take my attention off of you.

You talk in your sleep. Did you know that? You never say anything that makes actual sense; just a few random words here and there. It makes me wonder what sort of dreams you could be dreaming. Are you dreaming back to your days as a glorious empire? Were you thinking back to the days when I first began to realize that I loved you? You were so arrogant back then. To some extent, you still are, but I don't care. The ear piercings really suited you, I thought. It's a shame you decided to take nearly all of them out. You'll always be glorious to me, if my opinion counts for anything. Just so you know.

It's hard to believe how far we've come, especially with you snoring so gently upon my chest. I've noticed that your hair is getting a little long. I'll have to offer to cut it later when you wake up. When do you think you'll wake up? I want to see your eyes; large, green, and beautiful. There's nothing wrong with letting you sleep, however. You're actually quite adorable when you're like this, gently breathing in and out, wrapping your arms around me for warmth. What is it, _mon amour_? Am I suddenly your personal pillow? I don't really mind, so don't worry. It just gives me the chance to stare at your beautiful face longer.

This really does bring me back, back to when we were younger and more naïve. You loved to shoot arrows at me, despite all I did to try and prove I was not an enemy. You were so paranoid back then. It may have had to do with your brother's leaving you, didn't it? You were so cute back then, England. I never thought I would end up falling in love with you though. Even after all our wars and races to claim new colonies as we grew, I still found I was falling. A little too quickly, I might add. But who am I to deny my heart? I am the Country of Love, after all.

I trace my hand over your shoulder and I discover a faint scar left from centuries ago. America gave you this, right? I remember because I was there. I really am sorry, _mon cher_. I had no idea that his Declaration would hurt you so badly. Don't try and deny it, either. You shut yourself in your room for at least a week. You were probably crying. I don't think you'll ever admit that to me, but I'm sure you were. That's what I love about you, _Angleterre_. You're too strong to show others your tears, but it's perfectly okay to show me, my dearest. I won't judge you. If anything, I'll only love you more.

The scars I gave you have faded, but I don't need to see them to know where they are. It pained me to hurt you. It really did. But in all honesty, you didn't leave me much of a choice. Those Hundred Years were the longest of my life. But it doesn't matter. I have you now, and I am more than happy to just lay here for the rest of the day, if that's what you wish. Ah, but you will probably be disappointed if I don't make breakfast. That's so like you; grumpy as always.

Your pillows smell nice. What is that? It must be from the shampoo you use. You're probably not drying your hair properly, like always. It smells of roses. You really do like those flowers, don't you? And your tea, and scones, and your Burberry… Now that I think about it, you've always been pretty stylish, _oui_? Not as fashionable as myself, but still. You always look too good. It drives me crazy sometimes. I never tell you this, but all I want to do is admire your beauty, hidden under those eyebrows of yours. Don't worry. I think they can be quite charming. The trick is to not stare at them directly.

You grumble, "Frog…"

"Yes, _mon amour_?" I say with a smile. You are finally stirring.

You look up and rest your chin on my chest, staring at me with those tired, but dazzling green eyes. You look so much like a child like this. I stroke your cheek with my thumb. My Arthur, my England. You look so angelic in this lighting.

"What time is it?" you mumble into my shirt.

"It's a little past six, I believe."

"Ugh," you moan. You're adorable. You really are.

"Go back to sleep, _mon cher_," I coo while stroking your hair. You close your eyes again. "The meeting isn't until eleven."

"M'kay," you sigh.

"'Ey, Arthur?" I say softly.

"Yes, Frog?"

"_J'ai la coupe de foudre pour toi,_" I whisper. I'm staring up at the ceiling, too comfortable to look down to see your response. You'll probably pretend you didn't hear that, or that you didn't understand. I doubt the latter. French was your national language for nearly 200 years when you were a child. You just pretend you don't understand to irritate me. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I truly believe that you've forgotten it all. And then there are days when you catch me by surprise. I think it's unbelievable sexy when you talk to me in French. But that's a personal opinion.

"_Je t'aime aussi, Francis_," comes a muffled reply. My heart skips a beat. Did I hear wrong, _mon amour_? All I can do is smile.

I love waking up with you.


End file.
